To Forget the Din of the World
by Mousme
Summary: Missing scene from 4.21, sort of. Castiel gets his tea leaves read by Missouri Mosley, and finds out a few uncomfortable truths. Comment-fic for maychorian's birthday.


Title: **To Forget the Din of the World**

Prompt: By the lovely and talented **maychorian** for her birthday. Castiel meets Missouri sometime in S4. She's way too smart to get her eyes burned up, and she's not scared to smack him on the head and tell him he's being an idiot for not following his conscience.

Summary: Sort of a missing scene from 4.21. Castiel gets his tea leaves read by Missouri shortly after he releases Sam from the panic room.

Wordcount: 1, 213

Spoilers: Through 4.21

Warnings: None.

Neurotic Author's Note #1: Happy birthday **maychorian**! Have some Cas, some Missouri, and copious amounts of tea!

Neurotic Author's Note #2: I love the character of Missouri Mosley. I've been meaning to write her for ages, and even have one uncompleted fic from her POV with which I'm still tinkering. So this was a great opportunity for me to test the waters, even if it's not her POV.

Neurotic Author's Note #3: Written off-the-cuff, no beta, no nothing. You know the drill by now. :)

Neurotic Author's Note #4: The title is taken from a quote by Tien Yiheng: "Tea is drunk to forget the din of the world."

**~SPN~SPN~SPN~**

Missouri Mosley is entirely unfazed by the appearance of an angel in her living room. She looks up from where she's just snuffed out the candles on the low coffee table, and fixes Castiel with a flat look.

"Well... Castiel. Come on in and sit down. It's impolite to hover in a lady's doorway."

Castiel tilts his head. He has never had a human react this way to him before, and the experience is —novel. He checks his feet, but they are firmly planted on the ground. "I assure you, I am not... hovering."

"I was speaking figuratively. Don't tell me that an angel of the Lord can't understand metaphor, I don't believe it. The Creator is more inventive than that. Would you care for some tea? I was about to make myself some. Water's boiling."

"I don't require nourishment."

She heaves herself out of her chair, and snorts. "Nonsense. Tea isn't consumed for nourishment —it's good for the soul. And don't you go telling me angels have no souls. That's a lie, and I won't countenance that in my home. Come on, boy, don't be shy."

To his surprise, he finds himself shuffling after her into the kitchen, and he watches as she bustles efficiently, pulling the whistling kettle from the stovetop and pouring a small quantity into a bright red teapot with yellow trim. She swirls the water around and dumps it in the sink, then scoops a few heaping spoonfuls of tea leaves from a tin she takes from a shelf into the pot, pours more boiling water over the leaves. The kitchen itself is bright and cheerful, painted in whites and yellows and bright green accents. There are flowers and lace on Missouri's curtains, and light streams in through the glass doors leading to the garden. It reminds Castiel of the one time he caught a glimpse of the Garden.

After a moment, Missouri hands him a steaming cup of tea, complete with saucer. They match the teapot. "Sit," she says, and though her voice is gentle, there's steel in her tone. He perches on a kitchen chair, sets the cup and saucer before him on the table, and she joins him a moment later, curling her hands around her own cup. "Tell me, Castiel. Why are you here?"

"I came because you were scrying for me."

She sips her tea and looks at him across the top of her cup. "Uh-huh. That's the reason you gave to justify your visit to yourself. Now how about you tell me the real reason you're here?"

He doesn't answer, but carefully stirs his tea clockwise with the spoon Missouri has provided, watching the leaves swirl in the amber-coloured liquid. Steam coils along the surface of the tea, evaporates in the air.

"All right, then," she nods. "Drink your tea. I cancelled my afternoon appointment for you."

"That was unnecessary," he swallows a mouthful of tea. It's at once bitter and aromatic, the heat almost scalding his tongue, the scent of bergamot and mugwort filling his nostrils.

"If I thought that was true, I wouldn't have cancelled it. Go on, now, boy, we don't have all day. Finish up that cup and flip it. Let's see what it has to say for itself."

He glances up in surprise. "You wish to perform an act of divination using the dregs of my beverage?"

"That's the general idea, yes."

"Tasseography is notoriously unreliable."

Her eyes snap. "Boy, you don't see me going around instructing you on how to conduct Heaven's affairs, do you?" He shakes his head, somewhat chastened. Missouri, for all her pagan paraphernalia and practices, is one of God's beloved, the ones he blessed with insight and understanding. It isn't his place to question her. Her gaze softens. "Castiel," she reaches out and places a callused hand over his, thick fingers barely covering his own, the metal band of the one ring she wears cool against his skin. "You of all people should be able to distinguish between the tool and the art for which the tool is to be used."

He nods. "I apologize."

"There's no need, boy. Just keep an open mind, and don't make me pull out my spatula. Angel or no angel, I ain't afraid to wallop smart-alec boys who need wallopin'. Now finish your tea."

Obediently he swallows the last of it, leaving only a small amount of liquid in the bottom of the cup. Under her direction he swirls it again, three times clockwise, upturns the cup into the saucer. Waits a moment, then turns it upright again. "What do I do now?"

"Show me."

The saucer scrapes quietly on the wooden tabletop when he nudges it with a finger, and she laces her fingers under her chin, contemplates the tea leaves. She nods, 'mm-hmms' to herself once or twice, as though what she's seeing only confirms what she already knew. Missouri looks up at him, and he finds himself wishing he could squirm under her gaze. He's not accustomed to being the object of scrutiny, and he has never felt himself... judged before. He's not sure he likes the feeling, the reversal of positions.

"What do you see?" he's curious, in spite of himself.

"It's not about what I see, Castiel. It's about what you think I see. You and I, we are the creations of the same Maker. Same as Sam and Dean." She points to the tea leaves. "Do you know what I see?"

He shakes his head. "How could I?"

She jabs a forefinger into the tabletop for emphasis. "I see a decision that you regret. I see fear and hesitation. I see deliberate blindness. How many times will you turn your head, Castiel, and pretend that you can't see?"

He closes his eyes, hears the sound of a bolt scraping open, the click of handcuffs being released. He realizes that he's been holding his breath, a strange feeling inside this vessel to which he has barely become accustomed.

"I have to go."

She shows him to the door, and he lets her, even though he could simply go now. "Thank you," he says quietly, standing on her threshold.

"Don't be a stranger, now. You come back, when you need to."

"I will."

It's a promise, and it feels strangely like absolution. He won't return for well over a year.


End file.
